


3/7

by d_dormant



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Loneliness, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_dormant/pseuds/d_dormant
Summary: Diaval leaped up, but nothing could be seen behind the green hedge. Even as he climbed higher, only leaden heavy black skies looked back at him. Mistress... She disappeared. There was no silhouette of her wings ahead, not even to the side - there was nothing, nothing at all, pitch black emptiness, only clouds and dark waves - and not a trace, as if she had never existed.
Relationships: Diaval & Maleficent (Disney), Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	3/7

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [3/7](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/769365) by Дормант. 



> Ever read these ultra-dramatic fanfics without a coherent plot, with a bunch of pronouns, hyperbole, gradation and parcellation? I've never loved such, but it sort of happened. This is one of those.

He was scared. Nowise he was admitting to that, on pain of death, but the mere sight of that cat put him in a cold sweat. He sniffed the smell out just as he sat down at the table — more precisely, as he was seated at the table; the ginger beast, apparently, discovered him yet quicker.

He also disliked Queen Ingrith — and he knew he was not alone in this.

Humans really smile quite differently — and one should count on a raven to catch that. The pretence on the aging pale face was as visible as on paper: lips curled as they uttered disgusting things, and the raven was sick. Didn't anyone else have a dreadful knot in the pit of their stomach? He glanced at the mistress, whose composure was also bursting at the seams; he glanced at Aurora, who understood nothing: but how could one not understand? Poultry on the dishes, iron cutlery, a cat promenading literally behind him; all these terrible passive speeches… The queen was ready to tear them to pieces, no less. And only Maleficent began to realise it.

How heinous. The fried meat smelled unpleasant — although few would believe the scavenger. The seat, into which he was digging with one hand — the other was holding the goblet to convulsively slurp from — was filled with furballs. Their owner jumped right onto the table, dangerously close. Queen Ingrith and Maleficent were aiming: a sharp eye against a sharp tongue.

It all happened quickly. He only had time to consider recoil from the cat, and calming Maleficent, and quenching the emerald flame under her palms, and gouging out the tongue of this Queen Ingrith unless she holds it-

— and the flame engulfed everything. And the king collapsed.

He peeped at Aurora clinging to King John, at her stunned face. Maleficent tried, tried, although, of course, to no avail — nothing good was coming out of this. Another second — and he was a raven whizzing through the newly broken stained glass.

He loved the girl. Of course. Of course. But right now — right now Maleficent, his mistress rushing towards the ocean, needed him. Together they would fix everything, he just simply needed to overtake her as she was flying towards the sea, he simply needed to, needed to-

—And suddenly he was falling, falling, falling.

Screaming.

The wind whistled, and the bird plummeted as if never taught to fly, like an arrow fired incorrectly. He fell headfirst, crashing — clinging — into leaves, into dust, into his own body.

He was a human.

Why is he human? Why did she turn- she couldn't have turned him. Something was wrong.

Diaval leaped up, but nothing could be seen behind the green hedge. Even as he climbed higher, only leaden heavy black skies looked back at him. Mistress… She disappeared. There was no silhouette of her wings ahead, not even to the side — there was nothing, nothing at all, pitch black emptiness, only clouds and dark waves — and not a trace, as if she had never existed.

But he was a man. Something must have happened to her.

He couldn't sprint to the sea — it was far, beyond the maze, beyond the fence, miles ahead, — but he ran, and something wet smeared across his face. He tried to shout — _mistress! mistress! come on!_ — but she did not answer. He yelled her name like a spell, but the silence rang in the air like a stretched bowstring of a crossbow. If she fell into the water, he would never reach her. He was a bird, he does not swim, he couldn't pull out, if something dumped her, he — he could not help her, could not even find her, but if she was there — if she was drowning _right now_ —

He was alone. The royal castle, like a devil's rock, loured, formidable and militant, behind him; the inky sea raged and roared before his eyes. The wind threw his disfigured cloak from side to side making it pick up the gusts and cover his face, as if trying to knock Diaval to the ground. He wanted to fall himself. Aurora was abounded to her enemies, and he would not be allowed back. His mistress — _mistress, Maleficent, queen, sister, beloved — she —_ where was she? He was a human. Was she gone? She may be gone. She couldn't, but what if she was? If she was gone…

Alone. He plodded to the Moors, cursing the cloudy weather, and this day, and his life, and his helplessness. He endeavoured returning to the sea — surely if he plunged, even with grave darkness underwater, he could still… but he walked. The Queen left with the Moors, and their guardian… He was alone.

***  
  


Aurora returned in the dead of the night, when he had already scoured and sweeped all corners of the Moors. It made no sense. She was flying to the sea — he remembered her wings flapping far ahead the first twenty? thirty seconds? She would not have reached the Moors even if nothing had happened. She couldn't be here, wish he that as he might. Yet not a single acre remained unchecked; his hands and back itched from climbing trees, but in vain.

He begged the queen to stay — he needed at least someone — but Aurora returned in the dead of the night and stayed only for a few minutes. She learned of Maleficent's absence and forthwith decided to return to Ulstead.

He had hardly ever been so angry with her.

They had a quarrel. He refused to hear anything about Ulstead and was ready to lie down in front of her horse if necessary. The girl played deaf — she spoke of Phillip, of the cursed king, and blamed his mistress. He retorted that this was nonsense, that they know Maleficent and know that her spells are not cast wordlessly. He himself clung to this thought: she was innocent, Queen Ingrith was lying. All these speeches: about a witch, about a child — did she truly find Ingrith clueless? She ferreted everything out, she provoked Maleficent on purpose, the spell was rigged and now nothing will stop her — Aurora objected to the statements, but he did not let her interrupt him — nothing will stop her from striking the first blow. And to remain in the enemy's lair when your people are in danger, when the main protectress of the Moors… was missing, gone, _vanished_ — is the worst betrayal a ruler is capable of.

In a broken voice he echoed that it was his duty to protect her, which was impossible if she was so reckless. Only the brain instilled: defending your mistress was also your duty, and look how this is going. The girl wouldn't listen, and he gave up. Burying himself in her shoulders with her soft arms around him, he beseeched her to beware, to keep an eye out, not to succumb to anything; she uncertainly bleated she was going to be alright. Hands would not obey — the girl was one step from disappearing into darkness, like his mistress, like his love, leaving him alone, on two legs, forevermore. Aurora broke her embrace first, mounted her horse — and her white figure melted in the distance until complete blur — Diaval's eyes were wet, and visibility dropped.

He wanted to find Balthazar, to tell at least one soul, to seek advice, to flay his skin. His soul longed to soar and inspect every inch of land until he found a winged figure, until he smelled flowers, until he caught the starlight of green eyes. But the sky was blackened with coal and tar, and the Moors were sleeping, hiding from the thunderstorm, deaf to his silent pleas. His throat was sore from screams, raised tones with Aurora — for the first time in his life — and breathing through his mouth. His heart stuck there, beating wildly, ready to slip and fall, bloodied, in his palm. Would he feel if she died? Or was he feeling it now already? If she was alive, what should he do now? If dead, what should he ever do in his life?

The roots of the old tree, which had been his home for many years, served as a lodging place: from there Maleficent's rowan tree could be seen, and he pierced it with a gase, seeing what was not there, until the eyelids dropped by themselves. And still, he woke up with a start in the middle of the night to the rustle of a gray drizzling rain and could sleep no longer.

***  
  


It was the new routine. He would think she was dead. But then he would ponder how impermissible and unworthy of him to think so if she was still alive, and he tried not to think so. No avail.

It would be much easier to live, he mused, if they could communicate mentally. He would have summoned her and waited for an answer like providence — not much better of a fate, yet not as desperate as sitting at a loose end, straring into the void hoping for a miracle. And the feeling that he hears her voice somewhere would have leastways some foundation.

Conversations with pixies were useless and humiliating, and Diaval came to Balthazar. He did not waste a minute and, formidable and silent as usual, promised to inquire into all the talk that was in the air. Trees grow everywhere, after all, and their connection could help. And wouldn't it be a good idea to calm down, because the wise phlegmatic spirit of a magical creature, as if having already seen everything in the world and twice, could comfort anyone, but his hands were still shaking and his head was buzzing. Diaval awaited news from Ulstead, but neither a messenger nor a letter from Aurora nor a handful of soldiers to arrest the evil sorceress's henchman reached him. Of course, there were no flapping of wings behind his back either, as well as conversations, and disputes, and smiles, and transformations. He had been human for over a week.

Notwithstanding, the weather was jarringly good, and he tried to console himself with it. The weather always, he noticed, had some connection with his mistress. But in the evenings, when the bloody sun set over the horizon losing the last remnants of warmth, and the first stars sprinkled on the darkening sky, he desperately wanted to howl.

***  
  


Aurora was getting married. Diaval sullenly wondered whether she had thrown his words out the window altogether, but the anger was petty, superficial, and therefore fleeting: one look in the eyes of Queen Ingrith would have been enough to see her direct intervention in everything that happened…

The pixies, buzzing and whistling, attached feathers to the collar of his miraculously unaffected camisole, nagging about him needing to sleep and eat more, because his face was haggard. Diaval, on the other hand, caressed the feathers that once belonged to him with a mute gaze. One wretched week — and only pain in all limbs suggested that he wasn't always walking on two legs and grabbing objects with fingers. Why did he become human when Maleficent's magic was gone? He thought about it at night to no conclusion, or rather, he did not like the conclusion he came to.

The pain was equally frightening, but absurdly inspiring — maybe he wasn't a man at heart, and the mistress is simply far away and her magic worked differently. The explanation sounded flimsy at best, but he clung to it in the same way that he would cling to a branch with his claws and his beak to someone's sharp fingers.

***  
  


He was angry, which was good — that was, at least, a feeling.

Never before had he had to climb a steep wall, but there's a first time for everything.

He had never seen any other winged and horned fairies before, either, but that didn't matter. They all looked great — some with feathers as bright as the rainbow itself, some as black as his own wings — and yet none of them looked like… She was not there… But such a coincidence could not just happen; he knew, he allowed himself to believe that she was somewhere there and, gawping like a boy, flounced in search, unable to take wing.

And then shots rang out. The fairies began to disappear, as if a red cloud took them along and turned them into nothing. The earth was shaking underfoot, the air smelled of metal, fire and dust. Diaval could do nothing again, and the mind was racing. Was he looking for Aurora? Was he looking for a mistress? Was he looking for anyone?

Whoever he was looking for, he did not find — they found him. Sweet Aurora pleaded for help, and he tried with all his everlacking might to break the door of the church, from the windows of which clouds of red smoke hovered. Diaval was choking at the thought that half of the inhabitants of the Moors were now on the verge of life and death — and then began to choke from being thrown to the ground. Half a dozen warriors coming from nowhere decided that he was the most dangerous creature on earth and piled all their pounds of metal on his back, knocking him face down. Dirt and grass got into his mouth, unabling any movement, any breathing, and they pressed harder and harder, and-

-he began to grow. At first he did not understand anything, and then there was no time to think. He despised these guards, and that was it, and he was ready to shatter and shake each of them out of their armour like a gift from a box, and break down all the castle walls, not to mention the suffocating church, because if he was a bear — if he was shifted — then magic — then Maleficent — his mistress — was here, alive, _alive!_ He tried to look up, letting magical creatures through the gap in the wall, but he saw nothing in the dazzling radiance of the sun, only felt how magic — evil, green, so be it! — permeated all the air around, and seemed to breathe deeper.

When he did see her, he fell in love anew. Sparkling in her jade glamour, the fairy rushed to knock down enemy fortifications, ropes and hooks; the red flowers of death were blooming left and right, but she seemed to be immune to them, inviolable. Like a dart, her figure crashed into the top of the tallest tower, and he lost sight of her.

And then scarlet sparks rained down from the bastion —

And he became a man-

— and lost his heart.

He dug his nails into the ground, squinting futilely toward the white keep, and seemed to hear Aurora's screams from there — or were they his own.

Now this was the end. He felt, like never before, magic in his body — only because it was slowly disappearing, as if flowing out during bloodletting. There was no magic, their last connection, there was no mistress, his best friend, his companion, the mother of this beautiful girl who remained there, alone with this bloodthirsty — he rose to his feet — he had to reach her — there was no his beloved, his life, his very heart — he stepped forward, gaping at the scattering cloud, and could not even breathe, as if before he had breathed only her.

Hair came in his eyes, and he felt sick, and, when it seemed that his legs would break down and collapse, something in his heart blossomed.

He lifted his head to witness a large black spot absorbing everything around. He squinted — again there were sparks in his eyes, and hotness, and water — and saw a bird.

Of course, goddamn it. So like her to turn into a huge phoenix at the very last moment.

He looked at her the same way he had looked five years prior in the King Stefan's throne room at her winged, beautiful, magical figure, at the triumph of justice and beauty, once again feeling his heart melt in admiration and relief. He tried to see the black wings, the wriggling tail, and the face — a bird! she's a bird, damn it, she'll never hear the end of it once she gets here, and he'll hug her, he had to hug her to make sure she was alive, or else- She was falling. Why was she falling?

Aurora. Aurora was tumbling down.

Not again — just like the last time, only then it was him who caught her as a dragon — why does the poor girl always fall from the tower — catch her, Maleficent, _please_ don't crash-

The raven rushed towards them with newfound strength — and then rushed away to save his own life. Like a comet, Maleficent rushed prone, and in a second all around Diaval was dust and grass. Coughing, stumbling, heart in his throat, he ran with their collapsed — but alive — please, alive — bodies.

Phoenix fluttered her wings. A bush of blond hair emerged from under the inky feathers. The winged fae slowly, with genuine reverence, proceeded to bow their horned heads to the magnificent bird. Diaval exhaled. He's had enough for today — and for whole life in advance. Three times a week — three times a week his heart toppled into the abyss. He wanted to cry, either from happiness or from worries. And to sleep. But first, to hug both of them.

She said she missed him. He dared not answer anything serious. But his hands were trembling, and, perhaps, his face was swollen, otherwise the fairy might not have noticed. He read it on her face: she was about to ask — but they were separated: it was necessary to declare peace in the whole world, and the kingdoms' unity, and to sign papers, restore the ruins, and turn disgusting queens into goats. The latter the servant still didn't find enough.

But everything that Diaval was planning to do, he nevertheless did — however, later, at the lovebirds' wedding, postponed, since no one had the heart to celebrate so soon after the death of dozens of Fae. But weddings were good because it was not shameful to cry, not strange to watch his mistress smile and smile in return, knowing that she was real and standing right here in front of him. So he dropped a couple of tears. He hugged Aurora — eventually he was even allowed to dance the first dance with her, albeit not clear on what grounds, but everyone was clearly very moved. And he hugged Maleficent, too.

Apparently, very tight, because she had to ask if everything was fine.

The raven shook his head a little fanatically and slightly loosened his grip, but did not let go, neither did she. Three times a week, he breathed into the crook of her neck, and then she herself hugged him tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> This is the last of the translated short Maleval stories I had! I have no idea whether I should write more (in English, that is), so feedback from you would be very helpful!!


End file.
